


A Bird In a Cage

by judgehangman



Series: Burn Your Sins Into My Skin [2]
Category: Makai Ouji: Devils and Realist
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 04:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5033701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judgehangman/pseuds/judgehangman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's almost like a tragedy.</p>
<p>AU, post Solomon's death. Uriel x Dantalion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bird In a Cage

Clandestine euphoria lingers on his lips and the curve of his spine, a desire to be set free that fills him with a burning crimson as hateful as the demon’s eyes. He drags bloodied nails across Dantalion’s chest with unusual softness, digs them into the flesh out of anger. There’s an excuse on the tip of his tongue for every cruel mark he leaves on the demon’s body, and a hundred more for every gentle kiss he presses to the injured skin. Golden essence scorched by sin, Uriel is light and God’s grace, driven-out innocence like blood-stained feathers. His sorrow-bound prayers dissolve with Dantalion’s every touch, singed fingertips roughly gripping his wrists. Moonlight projects a broken halo over his head. Dantalion laughs at him, murmurs something akin to an ironic prayer, a cynical request for salvation that verges on the obscene.

Sacrilegious words; a caged bird and a hungry lion. Uriel obliges. Dantalion can’t set him free and he can’t sate Dantalion’s hunger. The cage protects the bird from the lion’s prying claws, but it doesn’t sing out of happiness. They play a game with no winners.

“If you wish to stop—”

But Uriel shuts him up with a kiss because he doesn’t want to stop. He should, but he doesn’t. Dantalion pretends he doesn’t know that; pretends he can’t read every nuance of the angel’s thoughts, the vulnerable desires that race through his mind as quick as their heartbeats.

It’s almost like a tragedy.

* * *

 

The wind whistles through the trees in a prolonged lament, thunder resonates across Heaven and inside every angel’s heart. Michael summoned all the archangels to Etemenanki in a hurried panic as soon as the skies greyed, the imminent rain always a bad omen. Rain never falls in Heaven, not with its permanently blue sky. The only time it did was when Lucifer rebelled, for seven days and seven nights. Everyone was visibly alarmed. God’s anger is liquid despair and Uriel knows it’s directed at him.

Uriel flies away from the tower with the wailing wind blowing harshly against his skin. He prays, waiting for the saline raindrops to fall once again and wash away the cinder off his soul. If he focuses hard enough and grasps at strands of meaning that aren’t there, he might find an answer to his questions. But he concentrates as much as he can, flows with the sky in one fluid movement, and the only reply he receives is the choleric wind.

He projects an entire galaxy around himself, draws imaginary lines between the stars, if only to remind himself of his Father’s creation. God created him not from dust but from light, breathed air into his lungs and smokeless fire into his heart, turned him into a powerful flame. He traces the constellations engraved into his very being almost desperately, clings to his faith so it doesn’t escape through his shaking fingers. Just like him, they are light from God’s light, the angry fire in their cores shrouded in masks of holiness.

Yet, has God not graced only a human with His presence instead of His beloved angels? Has He not allowed His brightest creations fall prey to the temptation He created Himself, confined them to His Word like birds in a golden cage? Has He not made them every bit as corrupt as the humans they were supposed to condemn?

Uriel ignores those questions, and thinks not of redemption, but his own stars accuse him in the various names of his Father. He thinks not of his bloodied knuckles, but fear never leaves him: it burns between his shoulder-blades, scratches at the base of his wings with wraith-like claws until he can’t breathe. He thinks not of the bite marks on his inner thighs, but the illusion around him still dissolves, leaving him with the same dark grey sky.

He lands, all those thoughts racing through his head. Uriel doubts. The rain falls once again.

* * *

 

Angels are not born innocent. Uriel knows that those who must fear sin understand it on a personal level. They negate their desire because it humiliates them to be the same as humans. Instead, they learn to repeat the rules and the consequences for disobedience before they are able to comprehend what blasphemy truly means, until God’s Word is ingrained into their composition, as inherent to angelness as their own wings.

He doesn’t punch the wall. He’s already punched it twice. Dantalion watches him with malicious curiosity, a smile on his face as if he knows he is responsible for that. He loves the destruction, they both do. Destroying each other, themselves, the flames that devour the last shreds of innocence they have left in them.

“Isn’t this just deliciously ironic?”

Uriel wants to hit him. He presses his nails into his palm before looking at the demon. Dantalion smirks, his eyes always a hateful red, and pats the bed.

“Come on, take your anger out on me”, he taunts. “I know you’re dying to.”

But Uriel doesn’t move. His desire is not carnal as much as it is intangible. He craves the feeling of Dantalion against him for the same reason he loves gambling. For the same reason he finds pleasure in delivering pain. It’s not control, it’s the elation of being alive. Life is gory cruelty, raw feeling coated in blood. Being born into this universe screaming, imperfect, disastrous. He looks out of the window, through the gap between the curtains. The rain falls incessantly, the wind howling outside. How long has it been raining in Hell? He grips the windowsill.

“Cat got your tongue?” Dantalion laughs. Cold, cruel. “You’re usually very talkative when you’re with me.”

“Shut up.”

He breaks part of the windowsill. His hands shake.

“And what are you going to do to me if I don’t?”

His answer is vulgar, and Dantalion snickers. Uriel has to remind himself that he should not, cannot, find pleasure in his job. Not because it’s against God’s Word, but because it is immoral. He does it still. It’s human futility, human self-indulgence, human sin. He doesn’t think he can recognise his own face reflected on the window. His eyes are blazing coal, sinful incandescence. He punches it. The window, not the wall. The glass shatters. His knuckles remain bloodied.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, look, the sequel is finally here! Showing up 8 months late with Starbucks. I promise next part won't take that long, but it will likely come out next year only. As usual, feedback helps me improve! Specially with how hard to write Uriel is for me. Not particularly a fan of this character, if I'm being completely honest.
> 
> Not featured: the term "vitriolic passion", which sleep-deprived me thought was too funny not to include, but well-rested me had to cut during editing because it was too ridiculous to include.


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